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Mercedes was the one person Sylvain never knew how to act around.
Since his upbringing, he had perfected the art of being what others decided he was. Even his one impulsive act, skirtchasing, eventually became another mask he took on: a role to act out. He could always create the perfect mask for every person he spoke to, catering it especially for that person's needs. When in a group setting, he used a more general mask, one that could please the most people at the time.
Mercedes never seemed to mind what mask Sylvain was wearing. Nothing gave him a different reaction from her.
Sometimes Sylvain didn't know which one to wear. He would switch rapidly between them, as if he were trying on clothes in his room, seeing which color and style best fit the mood at the time. Mercedes was the unflinching witness, seated in his room and waiting for his next outfit, the judge of which he placed all his faith in. Regardless of if it were his Sunday best or something more casual, her soft smile never faltered.
The difference between Mercedes and Sylvain was like night and day. While Sylvain couldn't leave his room to greet his guest without the perfect mask and matching accessories, Mercedes was bare faced and unafraid, regardless of who she was seeing. Her face was stunningly authentic, a testament to her kindness, and she wore her scars with pride. Sylvain doesn't know if he could even remember what his own face looks like; the facsimiles of the different masks blended together. He couldn't remember what was a truth and what was a lie.
Did he even have a truth anymore?
Sylvain seemed to grow more distressed over time, mixing looks and words together, creating patchwork masks out of pre-existing ones in an attempt to better please Mercedes. Still, she never faltered, unwavering in her support.
At the end of the day, Mercedes was still by his side. Nothing he did could cause her to leave, despite his fears that ate him alive at night, the source of his dark undereye bags. She was there to greet him in the morning and bid him goodnight. She held him close during his night terrors, and she gave him reminders to take care of himself throughout the day, offering him food and water as he often forgot. She knew deep down the old Sylvain had been discarded along the way of creating facets designed to uphold the visions of Sylvain others held: the flirty troublemaker, the heir to House Gautier, and the goofball who takes nothing serious. Even his darker side, the culmination of seeing the horrors of war firsthand and taking the lives of his own classmates, that too was a facet he designed -- an outlet for the stress of being the perfect faker.
Mercedes knew. She stays regardless. She asks nothing of him. His guilt only grows.